


The Whole Point

by Adarog (RembrandtsWife)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-07
Updated: 2008-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:45:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/Adarog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole point of wearing tight jeans....</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Whole Point

**Author's Note:**

> A follow-up to "Extraordinary Friends". Wesley spends the summer between seasons three and four in Sunnydale. With Rupert. Thanks to [](http://kivrin.insanejournal.com/profile)[**kivrin**](http://kivrin.insanejournal.com/) and [](http://antennapedia.insanejournal.com/profile)[**antennapedia**](http://antennapedia.insanejournal.com/) for beta.

The jeans were not so much tight as stiff. Very stiff. Quite the stiffest things Wesley had ever worn on his legs. And the briefs he wore beneath them, which Rupert had insisted upon as absolutely necessary, were quite uncomfortable in their unfamiliarity. He was certain they were going to chafe his groin.

He stalked back to Rupert's battered little French car, feeling absurdly like some sort of heron, and folded himself into the front seat with more than usual difficulty. "Rupert, these trousers simply don't bend."

"Yes, they do. And they're jeans, not trousers." Rupert flicked over the keys, and the car hummed beneath Wesley's bottom. "You just have to wear and wash them a few times before they soften up. Like mine." He pulled out of the parking space and into the lane between the cars, and then they were leaving the mall behind.

Wesley glanced back over his shoulder. Shopping for clothing with Rupert and Miss Summers had been... awkward, perhaps, but not mortifying. Rupert had insisted that if he was going to remain in Sunnydale for the summer, he needed more appropriate, that is, more casual clothing. Two pairs of jeans, one blue and one black, formed the cornerstone of his summer wardrobe. Miss Summers had consulted and pronounced them acceptable. Or so Rupert had interpreted her highly dialectal response to his appearance; she might have been speaking in tongues for all Wesley knew.

Two pairs of jeans, a windbreaker, three shirts, and a pair of loafers. His ordinary polished shoes did look rather odd below the dark blue denim, but he had refused to wear the loafers without breaking them in first. He'd also rejected, for the moment, the suggestion that he buy a pair of athletic shoes. Rupert had sighed and rolled his eyes and said they might as well head home.

"Home" meant Rupert's flat. So far all their socializing, if one might call it that, had been done either in innocuous public venues, sometimes in the company of the young people, or at Rupert's place. Wesley had found a decent chain motel to occupy, but while it was a great improvement over his former digs, it wasn't exactly conducive to anything but sleeping, alone.

The wind was rushing in the open window on Rupert's side, whipping up the older man's hair. Rupert was singing under his breath to some guitar-laden old tune from the radio. Wesley cranked down the window on his own side a bit and smelt a whiff of the ocean.

"Just leave your bags in the trunk," Rupert said. He trotted up the steps to his front door, jiggling the keys in his hand. Wesley goose-stepped after him, still not convinced that denim was pliable enough to walk in.

Inside the dim flat he stopped, blinking as he waited for Rupert to turn on a light. But the light didn't come; instead Rupert did, getting a fistful of shirt and pulling Wesley close for a kiss. Wesley made a smothered noise of pleasure as Rupert's tongue invaded his mouth and a smothered noise of surprise as Rupert palmed his crotch through the jeans.

Rupert let him go and Wesley wobbled one step backwards. When he regained his balance, Rupert was kneeling in front of him, popping the buttons on his fly.

Wesley swallowed the inevitable squeak, but Rupert must have heard it anyway, for he giggled. "You didn't realize, did you? The whole point of wearing jeans--" he tugged down the waistband of Wesley's briefs-- "is to get them *off*."

Wesley's cock leaped into Rupert's mouth like it had realized the point of wearing the jeans even if he hadn't. Rupert sucked busily on the head, stroked down the shaft, and worked his balls up and out so that they were framed by the stretched elastic and the open fly. Wesley whimpered and clutched Rupert's broad shoulders for balance.

Suddenly Rupert pulled back and rolled up to his feet, with the ease of a much younger man. "Come on, let's go to bed." He took Wesley's wrist and tugged.

"But--" Wesley gestured, feebly, to his exposed and tangled state.

"Walk up the stairs like that, and I'll let you fuck me."

Wesley walked. Rupert preceded him, and he watched the older man's lovely firm arse and tried to think about that rather than about how ridiculous he must look, a stiff-legged idiot carrying his erection in front of him like a pole. He made it to the top of the stairs and Rupert sank onto the bed, grabbing Wes's hand to pull him closer and mouth his cock again. Oh, lord....

Rupert rubbed his cheek against Wesley's belly. "You want to come now? want to come in my mouth and then get it up again for my arse?"

Wes choked out an affirmative, and Rupert went down on him again. It didn't take long before he spilled into Rupert's mouth, gasping wordlessly. Rupert sucked it all down and caught Wes as he slid to his knees, boneless.

"You might want to take your shoes off now."

In a bit they were stretched out together on the bed, kissing. Rupert never seemed to tire of kissing Wesley, and Wes was sure he'd never tire of it, either, though the taste of his own semen in Rupert's mouth took a bit of getting used to. He was quite used to stroking Rupert's cock by now, and not tired of that at all; he loved the thickness of it, the heaviness, the lush hair around its base and over Rupert's balls.

Rupert rolled over and sprawled out on his back. "Suck me, Wesley. Promise I won't come yet--don't want to. Want to come with your prick up my arse."

Wes swallowed hard and licked his lips. Rupert Giles, at times, was a veritable Catullus: He had a way of making poetry out of filthy words. At least it sounded like poetry to Wesley. In fact, he thought Giles's words might be sufficient, sometime, to bring him off; perhaps they should investigate that.

He knelt over the older man, kissed him, as aggressively as he knew how, then kissed lower--his chest, his nipples, his belly. He was always privately appalled, though by no means repulsed, by how many scars Giles had. He trailed kisses down until Rupert's cock brushed his ear, then turned his head and kissed the side of the shaft. Rupert hummed encouragement.

Wes wrapped his fingers around the thick meat and took the head into his mouth. He still felt terribly awkward about this, and felt he should be enjoying it more, and Rupert was... skilled beyond words when he did this for Wesley, but yes, he could take more of it than he did before, lowering his head and sucking and tasting musk and salt.

"That's good, Wes." Rupert grunted. "Yes." Strong fingers petted his hair; Rupert was always messing up his hair during sex. He was having sex with Rupert Giles, he was sucking a man's cock and the man was enjoying it. He flicked his tongue about the head and pressed it to the sensitive spot just below. Rupert grunted again. "Oh, that's good... good lad, good boy...."

A shiver went over Wesley at those words, and without thinking, he thrust his head down, taking as much of Giles's cock as he could and sucking fiercely. Giles arched up beneath him with a shout, and pushed him away. "Christ, man! Almost made me break my promise and come down your throat." He curled his fingers around the nape of Wes's neck and pulled him down for a kiss.

They lay side by side for a bit, breathing fast. Rupert toyed with the hairs at the base of Wes's skull, a sensation Wes found both soothing and arousing. He sighed when the other man rolled away from him, ending the massage, and gulped when Rupert presented him with a square packet of purple foil and a pump bottle of what appeared to be lotion.

"I recommend putting the condom on first, before you prep me. Easier that way."

Wesley had a very neat hand--he'd often been told he had the best penmanship of any Watcher his age--and was clever at things like tying up packages and making neat corners on beds. Yet he found himself fumbling terribly as he tore open the foil package, extracted its slippery contents, and tried to fit it over his twitching member. He began, in fact, to put it on wrong way out and had to ask Rupert for another one.

Then there was the matter of the lubricant, for so it was. It looked like lotion in the bottle, but the label indicated that it was, indeed, lubricant, for sexual purpose. Wesley assayed a pump and squeaked as it squirted jubilantly over his hand and Rupert's thigh and dripped onto the sheets. In his attempts to wipe it up, he discovered it felt like lotion, too. It was creamy and white, thick and very slippery, with a pleasant texture but no scent that he could discern.

Once he had sheathed himself in the condom and got the lubricant where it ought to be, on his fingers, Wesley addressed himself to the problem. Rupert had turned to lie face down, his head upon his arms and his left leg drawn up, hips twisted so that his firm rump was toward Wesley. Wesley sat, his own legs coiled beneath him, laid one hand on Rupert's hip, and reached out with the other.

"What is it, Wes?" Rupert asked, after a moment.

Wesley was glad that blushing was not audible as well as visible. "I... I don't know what to do."

"'S all right." Rupert pushed himself up on his elbows and twisted round to look at Wesley. "You want to get the head of your cock--" he pointed to Wesley's groin with his chin-- "in a little small hole. The hole stretches. All you want to do is loosen it up." He lay down again, expectantly, as if he'd explained everything.

Nothing to be done but dive in, so to speak. Wesley reached out again, between the firm curves of Rupert's bum cheeks, and trailed his dripping finger along until he found the spot where he was wanted. It was soft, so very soft and smooth. It surprised him. He pushed tentatively, and his fingertip sank into the little orifice, to be gripped tightly. Rupert made a small sound.

Loosen it up, he thought. Without pressing forward any further, or withdrawing, he moved his finger in small circles. Rupert made another small sound and pushed his rump back, sucking Wesley's finger in a little more. So tight. So very tight. And Rupert wanted his cock in there? It hardly seemed believable, let alone possible.

Wesley continued the careful circling and then wiggled his finger back and forth. Rupert made a noise that sounded very much like a giggle and moved in response. The bolder Wesley became, the stronger was Rupert's response, until without much effort on his part, most of his finger was in Rupert's arse, gripped by smooth slick muscle that seemed ruthlessly hot and tight around the questing digit.

Rupert muttered something which Wesley had to ask him to repeat. "Bend your finger forward, right there--oh!" Wesley obeyed, and Rupert ground himself against the touch. The prostate, Wesley remembered. Yes, that was it. Greatly daring, he withdrew his hand, squirted more lube, and eased two fingers in with remarkable facility, to press them together against that desirable spot.

Rupert voiced a throaty, delightfully vulnerable moan, and then with a fierce look thrown at Wes, shifted to his hands and knees. "Come on, then. Do it, fuck me." He dropped his head onto his arms.

  
Seeing the back of Rupert's neck exposed, pale and tender below the short curls of hair, made Wes feel quite wild. Throwing caution to the winds, he wiped his messy hands on the duvet and knelt behind Giles, his knees between the other man's calves. He inched forward on his knees, placed his prick against Rupert's slickened hole, aimed himself just so with one hand, and pressed in.

Rupert pressed back, slowly but deliberately, and groaned softly as the head of Wes's cock sank in. Wes was astonished to hear a similar groan rumbling through his own chest. He surrendered to the primal need to push himself into that tight, demanding grip, to feel a lover's body enclosing his own. Rupert's body accepted him, willingly, and Rupert arched his neck, cursing in that soft husky voice that drove Wesley mad every time.

He groped around Rupert's body and found him hard though not rampant. Rupert thrust decisively into Wes's hand, then back against his cock. Even Wesley could interpret such simple nonverbal instructions, and he began to move, pulling and pushing and feeling so intensely, feeling everything. Feeling the grip of Rupert's muscles, the velvet skin of his cock, the thud of his hips against the other man's buttocks, the delicious friction their bodies were making. And hearing Rupert's grunts and gasps, and his own, and the slap of their flesh, their bodies striking together. Was he seeing sparks of fire that they made in their collision? The scent of his own sweat, high and sharp, mingled with the warm odor of Rupert, the familiar notes that dominated the room, and he bent and kissed Rupert wherever he could reach, and licked him, licked up the taste of him like cream. Everything was swirling around him and pooling in his belly, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes, everything gathering there, and the dam broke so suddenly he was not prepared for it; it poured out of him, quick and desperate, into Rupert, it emptied him and left him nearly weeping, and it felt so good he was at once afraid never to feel it again and afraid ever to feel it again, and it was over.

Rupert was trembling beneath him. The older man cried out, and his body gripped Wes's even harder and wrung at him, three or four times, making Wes cry out, too. Rupert was coming, jerking himself so that he came. Wes had lost track of Rupert's pleasure, drowned in his own. Feeling like a puppet whose strings have been cut, he withdrew, moved to Giles's side, and dropped like a stone onto the sticky sheets.

Rupert collapsed beside him, panting. "Bloody marvelous," he said, when his breathing had subsided a little.

"Eh?"

"I said you were bloody marvelous, Wes. Been too long since I've had a good fucking." Rupert rolled over, planted a warm hand on Wesley's chest, and kissed him. "Want some tissues to clean up?"

After handing him a spray of facial tissue, Rupert rolled out of bed and sauntered off to the shower. Wes stripped off the filled condom, inevitably spilling much of the contents on himself, mopped up extensively (using quite a few more tissues than he had been given), and lay quiet, listening to the rise and fall of Rupert's voice over the plashing of the shower. He felt strange, but good. In some way different than he had felt before. In what way, precisely, he wasn't sure, but at the moment, he had two choices: He could lie here and try to puzzle it out until he felt frustrated and depressed, or he could get up, empty his bladder, and see if Giles wanted company in the shower.

He looked at the ceiling. Rupert was singing the opening stanza of "Stairway to Heaven".

This, he thought, must be stopped, and swung his legs decisively off the bed.


End file.
